


Wine & Whiskey

by ladymelodrama



Series: Wine & Whiskey [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Card Games, Dornish wine - Freeform, Drinking, F/M, I Don't Even Know, Jorah Mormont Lives, Post S8, Queen Daenerys, Some minor Tyrion/Sansa stuff in ch. 4, Sunspear, like this one, sometimes scenes waltz into my head fully formed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-11-01 14:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20816912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymelodrama/pseuds/ladymelodrama
Summary: Queen Daenerys doesn't like to be told what to do.





	1. A Game of Queens

**Author's Note:**

> This is some post-S8 AU-fluff randomness where Daenerys is Queen and Jorah didn’t die. I’m supposed to be working on other projects but I felt weird not posting a Jorleesi fic this week and this little scene just waltzed into my head and said “write me, please” :)
> 
> #IMayBeAddicted  
#ToJorleesi  
#OhWell  
#ThereAreWorseThings

** _Daenerys_ **

A week before my scheduled coronation, Tyrion tried to marry me off to the Prince of Dorne. He’d brokered the deal without my knowledge, dragging us to Sunspear on the pretense of a summit meeting, and now sought to sell it to me wholesale, with an endless list of practical reasons why I _must_ accept. 

It would solidify our alliance with the Southern kingdom, he said, and we might need their help should Jon Snow be tempted to press his claim for the throne. I’d told Tyrion that Jon gave me his word before leaving the capital, that he would go North, that he would go _home_, that he had no interest in being king. Not now, not ever.

He swore an oath to me and I had no reason to doubt it. No matter the blood that ran through his veins, everyone agreed that Jon had learned his sense of honor and duty from the only father he ever knew. And Ned Stark would never break such a vow. 

But Tyrion was insistent. It was time to settle down, he said, no more would I be the dragon princess traipsing from battlefield to battlefield, with blood and fire in my wake. I was the Queen now, and not of the Eastern variety, where much was forgiven in the face of liberation and mythical creatures flying above dusty pyramids. 

“This is the West,” Tyrion lectured me with that insufferable tone that betrayed his own sense of self-worth and the high value he placed on his own opinions. He continued, “In the West, there are certain expectations which you must meet.”

“I thought our intention was to break the wheel,” I reminded him smartly, wondering, for perhaps the hundredth time, why I allowed the last Lannister to remain in my service.

“Break all the wheels you want,” Tyrion grumbled, as if tussling with a child, imploring me to understand the gravity of the situation, “But make sure to do it in the right way.”

I laughed in the little man’s face. What was the _right_ way? Did my ancestor, Aegon, do things in the right way? Had Cersei, when she blew up the Tyrells in the Sept of Baelor? Had her children? Or Robert Baratheon, who ordered the slaughter of my brother’s children and then sent spies and assassins across the sea to finish off the rest of us? 

I had retained Tyrion as my Hand after Cersei’s defeat, even though I still had my reservations. I would have given that pin to Jorah if he asked, but he hadn’t. And so I gave him the white cloak of my Lord Commander instead. He told me it was for the best and that Tyrion would always be better-suited to a role that required his mouth to run incessantly from sunrise to sunset.

_True enough, Ser…_I had relented, finally realizing that my bear knight’s penchant for silence and reservation would undermine his ability to serve as my Hand anyway. And he didn’t need the title, having gained my ear a long time ago. 

At moments like this, though, I sighed heavily, wishing for a little more silence and a little less advice. Tyrion was wise in his own way, I suppose. He’d survived more attempts on his life than I had. But there are many flavors of wisdom and I knew myself well enough to know I was more inclined to listen to those flavors that didn’t force me into the prison of a political marriage. 

Viserys had tried the same with me years ago. Look how his efforts turned out. 

So, that night, I dismissed Tyrion from my presence without giving him an answer. We’d talk in the morning, he declared, for the Prince would expect an answer shortly. He urged me to consider the future, for all our sake’s. I nodded, but frowned at his back darkly as he left. Then I looked around the guest chambers that the Dornish prince had fashioned for me, all splendor and expense, thinking to woo me through a display of wealth.

But I was never that sort of woman, having grown up on the run, denied even the simplest of homes. And what I _wanted_ was never the conventional choice. 

I sighed again, this time to myself, and soon left my room to wander the palace and clear my head. The two Unsullied at my door made an effort to follow me closely, but I told them to stay outside my chambers, with a fierce command that they wouldn’t dare disobey. 

We had brought a small escort with us, just in case things turned sour. But the fragrant night air of Dorne held only spices and floral scents—no tension, no plots. After a decade of bloodshed, Westeros appeared ready and willing to commit to peace, at least for the duration of spring. So after wandering the lush gardens of the palace for a while and finally deciding on my answer—I would tell my Hand that maybe _he_ should consider entering into a marriage pact with the Prince of Dorne—I went down to the kitchens and found my Lord Commander and Ser Bronn of the Blackwater playing cards around a rickety servant’s table and drinking Northern whiskey. 

They both stood at my presence, on guard immediately even though they were off duty, but I waved them down again and bid them continue their game. In fact, I grabbed two bottles of red Dornish wine out of the cellars and joined them, much to their astonishment. But I was their Queen and neither one of them would dare refuse me, one out of fear, the other out of devotion. And I didn’t want to be alone.

We played until one in the morning. With the same streak of luck that had followed me from Meereen to the Red Keep, I cleaned Ser Bronn out of his week’s wages with a little too much energy and zeal.

“What? Nothing left to bid with, Ser Bronn?” I looked at his dwindling pile, teasing, “No Lannister gold left. Where’d all your coins go, Ser?”

“Yeah, rub it in, Your Grace,” Bronn muttered, throwing his faithless cards down in disgust. “That’s it. I’m out.”

He grabbed his coat off the back of his chair and pushed the last of his coins my way.

“Take them. It’s less than I owe you,” he sniped at me, adding, “I suppose you’ll want to take some off my flesh, as well?”

To my left, Jorah gathered the cards off the table and began shuffling.

“Oh, I’ll forgive it this time,” I winked at him, a little drunk on my streak of luck, a little more drunk on the Dornish red wine. Ser Bronn of the Blackwater didn’t smile. 

“Don’t be that way, Ser,” I pouted but could not keep the expression for long. I grinned without meaning to. Ser Bronn waved me off, gloomy in his defeat, especially at the hands of a woman. He stomped out of the kitchens, despite the apologies I called out after him.

“You tease the boys too much sometimes, Daenerys,” Jorah mentioned as he dealt the cards for the next hand. I turned from Bronn’s retreating back to meet my Lord Commander’s even stare. His blue eyes did not flicker away from mine but held steady.

“Do I?” I cocked an eyebrow at him, wondering when he’d become so bold again. It had taken some time, of course. After he returned to me at Dragonstone, we danced around each other for a while, healing old wounds by tip-toeing around the familiar. But time heals all and this was the Jorah I knew from years ago. Before Meereen, before Qarth. The man who led me through the desert and sparred with me over the nature of trust so vehemently.

This Jorah Mormont said whatever he liked to me. 

“You know you do,” he said, soft but sure on that score.

I pressed my lips together as I picked up my cards, but I wasn’t unhappy with his words. I liked when he spoke freely. I liked it more than I should. 

He had dealt me three queens. But I’d lost the ability to bluff and my Lord Commander didn’t play as loose as Bronn. I won the hand but had little to show for it.

“You’re reading my thoughts now?” I asked him smoothly, still grinning, looking at him through the haze of red wine. It softened the rougher edges of his personality. It dismissed all the sad history that cluttered up our lives, making it all seem like a bad dream from a long time ago—not even worth mentioning.

No…the only things worth mentioning tonight were the shade of his blue eyes. His strong hands sweeping the cards from the table. The ginger hairs in his stubbled beard. My fingers itched to run along his jawline, as I had in the past. When I wasn’t a Queen, when we traveled together in the East. Alone, and far from the reach of what Tyrion would consider proper and expected. 

Thinking of Tyrion’s plans again, his game of queens and kings, his lecturing voice, his prattling plots, made me want to do something reckless. Something unexpected.

Here. _Now._

I was suddenly and irrevocably tempted to kiss Jorah Mormont, as impulsively as I had kissed him that night beside Drogo’s pyre, all those years ago.

But my Lord Commander had set the cards to one side. And his glass was almost empty. Perhaps he was reading my thoughts, after all. For after downing the rest of his whiskey, Jorah reached out and kissed me first.


	2. Truth or Dare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...Ch. 2, anyone? 
> 
> I changed the title of this fic because the original title was specific to that one shot. So "A Game of Queens" is now Ch. 1 and "Truth or Dare" is Ch. 2. Side note - I think canon Jorah/Daenerys would have benefited from an actual game of Truth or Dare. And obviously more Dornish wine ;)

**_Jorah_**

That kiss. 

I’m not sure why I thought it was a good idea. Or why it suddenly felt like the only idea, the only possible end to this night or morning or whatever it was. The exact hour had escaped my notice, much like everything else.

Everything else except for _her_. 

Her eyes sparked with a desire too powerful to misread and the whiskey had dulled my decision-making skills beyond use. My regrets? My prior reservations? I couldn’t name any of them. 

I couldn’t remember anything while my lips were on hers, while my hand came up and wrapped loosely at the base of her pale throat, my fingers catching a few of those silver-blonde strands as they splayed out against her warm skin.

Under candlelight, her hair looked like spun gold. Always had, whether in Qarth or Meereen or King’s Landing. And given the choice between Daenerys’s hair and the precious contents of all those overflowing vaults beneath Casterly Rock, I’d still choose her hair every time.

Every _damn_ time.

Followed by her soft lips, her violet eyes, her flushed skin…

I could feel her pulse beneath my hand and her shallow breath against my cheek as we suddenly broke apart, too abruptly.

“You dare taste the lips of your Queen, Ser Jorah?” Daenerys whispered those words, but there was no anger there, no indignation. It was a tease, but an inquiring one…as she wasn’t the one who had pulled back from that kiss.

That was me, breaking away from Daenerys’s kiss. Willingly. 

_Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island, ever the fool…_

But a moment of clarity had stung me harshly, rising up from my subconscious in a familiar voice that demanded, in the most certain of terms, 

_What are you doing?_

That voice held judgment, and good sense, and all the caution of Queen Daenerys Stormborn’s ever loyal and ever faithful Lord Commander. But I didn’t care. My mouth remained only a few inches from hers and that voice, _my_ voice, wouldn’t stop me this time. The words were too far away, fading in the failing light, like the flicker of candles, vanishing like smoke on the sea or like water poured out on the Essosi desert. 

It was a moment of hesitation, no more. All swallowed up too soon by a flooding of my senses. 

My lips tasted of both red wine and whiskey now, and I would taste that wine again.

I held back for a beat more, comprehending that there was an intense gravity to what we were doing. What we had _done_. That line between us had been solidly in place for nearly ten years and might as well have been forged in Valyrian steel, for all its stubborn resilience. I’d never thought to cross it. How, then, did it fail so quickly?

And with so little challenge from her side…

The present look in her eyes was reminiscent of that day on the beach at Dragonstone when she reached out and took my hands, unwilling to hear words of farewell pass my lips. 

She’d stolen away my rational thoughts that day, rendering me speechless. She stole them away again now, her eyes just as wide, her expression just as expectant.

And this time…well, Jon Snow wasn’t in Dorne. Nor was he waiting for her in King’s Landing. Jon Snow had gone back North. For good. 

My hand strayed, lingering against her jumping vein for a moment while the pad of my thumb wandered down the drop of her collarbone, until it sank deeper, past the buttons of her overdress, those top two undone in the heat of a Dornish sunset, to the rise of her breast.

I felt her chest move with each breath. Otherwise, I would have suspected that time had stopped altogether. 

The hour was late, the silence was deafening. And she was still waiting for my answer.

My Queen watched me closely, curiously, trying to read my thoughts. Perhaps she expected me to pull back, to pretend I hadn’t kissed her. 

And I would have, I should have…but I didn’t. 

“I’d dare more than that, Your Grace,” I answered instead, not sure what had come over me tonight. I could blame the whiskey, or the very air of Dorne, which had a silk-worn feel, a spiced scent that worked a madness in a man’s head. 

A woman’s too, no doubt.

“What would you dare?” Daenerys wondered, liking my tone. Her grin was returning.

“I’d dare this,” I replied, letting my fingers play at the third button on her overdress, tugging it loose. The lace bodice beneath peeked out a little more, revealing much. I moved down to the fourth, “And this.”

“Tyrion would not be pleased with what you dare, Lord Commander,” she mentioned, cocking that left eyebrow up just a little. 

_Ah, so that’s what this is about, Khaleesi?_

So Tyrion had finally divulged his plan to our Queen and betrayed the true reason for our visit to Sunspear. In King’s Landing, he’d pitched the idea to me, looking for approval. But I couldn’t give him that. I remember shaking my head in response, warning him that Daenerys would not take kindly to her Hand telling her who she should wed.

_You think you know her so well, Mormont? And perhaps you do…which is exactly why she needs a husband. The sooner, the better._ The Imp had replied, with a dark, knowing frown thrown in my direction.

And he said I was the one with the talent for glowering…

“Tyrion can go hang himself,” I answered her now, flatly, honestly, feeling no regrets on that count, at least.

She laughed at my words, although quietly. The palace was hushed at these earliest of hours and we were playing dangerous games in the bowels of the palace. 

But we continued playing them, heedless to any risk. 

Her grin widened and she tilted her head just a little, hair falling over her shoulder as she leaned over to steal another kiss from my lips, apparently liking the taste. It was an invitation and I answered it. With another kiss and then another.

She was soon perched on my lap, with her skirt bunched up to her thighs. My hands were working their way down that endless line of buttons while her arms remained curled around my neck, her fingers crawling through my hair, her tongue too busy with mine to manage much of anything else.

But then…a door scraping stone.

That sudden, unexpected sound echoed from down one of the side corridors, one of many connecting the labyrinth of the palace’s lower chambers. 

Her lips slid off mine, reluctantly, and we both turned towards the sound with a sharp, shared glance.

Daenerys’s hands were now planted flat on my chest, mine had migrated to the curve of her hips and lingered there. But we waited, unmoving, listening for more. Nothing followed. After a moment, her eyes slowing came back from the mouth of the entryway, meeting mine with a little mischief playing behind those violet irises.

She pressed her forehead down against mine and remarked, “That was close.”

I would have said something in return but the noise came back, the same scraping door, wood against stone, but this time with footsteps to accompany it. With a muted shriek, Daenerys jumped from my lap. But she was still grinning, despite the danger, caught up in the chance of impending discovery. 

“Come!” she beckoned me with an insistent whisper, seizing my hand and pulling me to my feet. She led me away from that table quickly, with its discarded cards and empty goblets. The approaching steps were unrushed, as they likely belonged to a scullery maid or laundress coming down to begin their morning chores at the most ungodly of hours. 

But even unhurried, the steps came ever closer as they traversed the short length of that corridor. They would be upon us in only a few seconds more.

Daenerys acted fast and led us down to the torch-lit wine cellar, both of us ducking out of sight before those footsteps crossed the threshold to the kitchen. We descended the stone steps to the cellar with admirable silence, but her little laugh of victory at the bottom might have given us away too easily. 

So I clamped my hand over her mouth as I simultaneously rounded her slim waist with the other, gently but insistently pulling her back behind a large rack of wine bottles, one of thousands in that impressive cellar, all gleaned from Dorne’s green, vernal vineyards. 

Daenerys grinned at my caution, too reckless in her wine-soaked mirth to think it was necessary, but willing to be hauled into the shadows of that wine rack nonetheless. 

The way she melted against me, I could tell she would be willing for me to do almost anything at present. 

Under my hand, I felt her lips curl in a smirk and heard her muffled voice say, “Oh, how you _dare_, Jorah Mormont.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No promises on a Ch. 3...but, I mean, "The Wine Cellar" has a nice ring to it.


	3. The Wine Cellar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so maybe I have an idea for Ch. 4? These two, I swear. Endless inspiration. Xo
> 
> A slight adjustment to canon (other than the obvious ones) – the Dothraki died at Winterfell. All of them. Because, I don’t magically resurrect armies for a glamour shot. Or, ya know, throw out seven seasons of back story on a whim. But maybe that’s just me…

** _Daenerys_ **

In my whole life, there’s never been a day or night that I wasn’t thinking about the Iron Throne of Westeros. How it was stolen from my family, how the Usurper defiled it with his claim, how I would retake it with a dragon’s vengeance, and how I would keep it once I had it. 

Lord Tyrion thinks about it too, often and with an anxious mind. His mouth prattles on endlessly of heirs and marriages and Jon Snow’s claim. With victory achieved at long last, Tyrion was now worried about what came next.

But I wasn’t worried about the Iron Throne. At least not tonight.

I was only worried that my Lord Commander would rouse himself from the spell of impulse and suddenly think twice.

I didn’t want him thinking at all. I only wanted his warm, soft mouth on mine, his strong hands exploring my bare skin and the weight of his body crushed against mine. 

Satisfied that no one was coming downstairs to discover us, I felt Jorah’s grip relax slightly around my waist and so I turned in his grasp and reached up with both hands, dragging his mouth down to mine once more. 

I knew him well enough.

I knew him better than anyone on either side of the sea.

And given enough time to think about what was happening, I knew Jorah Mormont would break that kiss and tell me to go upstairs and go to bed.

But I wasn’t tired yet. I wasn’t tired at all. And Jorah wouldn’t say no to me.

Not because I was his Queen, like all those simpering fools who fell in line as soon as Drogon and Rhaegal stretched their massive wings, soaring above the old castles with screeching howls, while casting monstrous shadows over the land below. 

No, Jorah didn’t say no to me because I was Daenerys, _just_ Daenerys. With my crown or without, with three dragons or with none, it didn’t matter.

_I’ll always love you_…he’d promised. And he never broke his promises.

The wine rack shuddered as we moved against it, rattling the glass bottles. He was _so_ tall. I climbed him like a tree, aware of his lean muscles and the way they stretched over his large frame, his broad shoulders, all vitality and strength. He could lift me like a lamb. And had done so, in places far from these shores.

On the black moors outside the gates of Winterfell, he stood between me and a thousand wights, cutting them down like chaff in a wheat field. He had stood between me and the Sons of the Harpy, the Masters of Yunkai, Astapor and Meereen, the warlocks of Qarth and the Dothraki bloodrider who left that raised scar on his throat.

The same scar I followed now, tracing it back to where it faded into the soft curls at the nape of his neck, my fingers squeezing at those red-blonde hairs eagerly.

_There’s a beast in every man and it stirs when you put a sword his hand._

He told me that once. But I wondered…what stirs when a man takes the woman he loves in his arms? Or when a woman finally succumbs to the one who loves her the most? 

I could only speak for myself but as Jorah’s arms gathered me up, tugging at the small of my back, as his kisses trailed from my lips, to the side of my temple and then down, along the curve of my neck, all hot and whiskey-flavored, I burned from the inside out.

We should have done this in Qarth, I suddenly realized. Why didn’t we? 

I couldn’t remember. There seemed to be a thousand arguments against it at the time but, presently, I…couldn’t remember any of them.

“_Khaleesi_, I don’t think I can stop if you let me go further,” he warned, his honey-smooth voice rasping a little, as he buried his head against the side of mine with a bearish groan. The cadence on that old title was too musical and too familiar. It sent another wave of heat straight through me, my legs going weak beneath me.

There was no one left who called me by that name. My Dothraki riders had met their demise on the Winterfell moors, fighting Jon’s war, giving their blood to foreign soil, and they were all burned on pyres with the rest of the fallen.

And even if they had survived, no one said that name like _he_ did.

I wanted him to say it again. I wanted him to say it while he was inside me. I wanted…him.

“I don’t want you to stop, _Ser_,” I replied at his ear, ringing my arms around his neck as I felt him lift me from the stone floor, pulling me up against him, as we continued our tour of that wine cellar and each other.

The Prince of Dorne had lavish taste and an eye for exuberance. The cellar was massive, filled with bottles, casks and racks of Southern reds and whites, old stone walls lined with flickering torches. He had a couch set up about halfway into the cellar, flanked by casks, all overlaid with red silks and purple brocade, a place for the prince to indulge in his appetites. A silver platter was balanced on the wooden face of the nearest cask, with a bunch of grapes, pears and two wine glasses perched upon the silver, all half-empty, abandoned by their prior owners hours ago.

We tumbled onto that couch, with me sprawled over my knight. I was undressing him with nimble fingers. But Gods, how many layers did he wear? And in Dorne? He was always overdressed in the East, as well, too mindful of the many dangers to be out of leather and armor for long. 

Well, not always…

I remember the scalding days in the Red Waste. Just before dawn, with the sun still shackled by night and restrained below the horizon, light dew would sometimes fall, bringing a moment’s respite against the desert’s searing heat. The slick dampness fell on any exposed skin and the cool air of just before dawn licked over the dampness with pleasure.

I woke one morning before the others. Or so I thought. But Jorah was up already, rummaging around the camp quietly, taking stock of our dwindling supplies, frowning into the distance, all sand and dust. My eyes marked his movements, following his steps, the industry of his hands. He’d stripped off that yellow shirt he always used to wear, bare-chested, exposing his skin to any relief that the night air might grant, before dawn’s first light came and sizzled it all away.

That morning in the desert, my eyes followed him closely, secretly, wondering briefly if my touch might set him on fire again. Wondering why the thought sent pleasant shivers straight through me. But when he turned my way, I quickly slipped my eyelids closed again, pretending to be asleep. 

Always pretending.

Never letting my mind wander too close to the idea of what Jorah Mormont might do if I slid my fingers down the length of his chest, from collarbone to navel.

As I helped him strip off his tunic in the wine cellar, I found myself doing just that, taking in the muscular ridges and all those many scars. His body was a map of where we’d been and I found myself entranced by it, by _him_.

“The grey scale…?” I wondered as I followed the fading patterns, so many, sunk dark against his skin like the tattoos of sailors on the Summer Sea. He nodded grimly, setting his jaw against a memory that I’m sure cut painfully.

I’d forced Samwell Tarly to tell me all—the spread of the infection, the methods he used to cure the rabid disease. Sam told me that he knew of no other man who could have survived it. 

_I command you to heal yourself and return to me…_

My hand wandered further, coming to rest at a long, vicious scar on Jorah’s left side, too near his heart for my liking. I asked, “The wights?”

“Aye,” he answered, understatedly. I remember hearing that blade sink past his armor with a sickening crunch, as he pushed me out of the way of its bite. How many wounds had he taken for me? The number seemed nearly countless.

I bent and kissed the scar, dragging my tongue up the length of his ruined skin. He grinned at that, reaching down and bringing my chin up so I was facing him again, those blue eyes drawing me in easily.

But I misread the reason for it and started shaking my head, in a fiery manner, “If you’re having seconds thoughts, Jorah, I…”

I would scold him into submission, I decided—as a Queen, as a lover. I would have him this very hour, despite his misgivings. No more excuses. No more pretending.

But there was nothing submissive about Jorah tonight, and I found myself biting my bottom lip softly, at the fierce, almost possessive look he gave me.

A look that said I was the only woman in the entire world. From Dorne to Asshai and back again. 

Other men had claimed to love me and told me that my beauty had no equal the world over. But their pretty words had fallen from flattering tongues and those fragile words shattered at my feet like glass.

Except for Jorah’s. For he didn’t say any pretty words. He rarely said any words at all. He didn’t like words, he thought they were false things, too easily manipulated and used for mischief. So he remained silent, loving me in silence, never pushing, never demanding. There he stood, beside me. Always. 

And only occasionally, he dared to look at me. 

He dared to look at me like _that_, his blue eyes taking mine captive, reminding me that there was no one else in the world who loved me so well. 

That look—pride in my victories, pain in my defeats, wonder at my very existence, joy that the world he lived in also included me. 

He wore that expression through two continents, with a steadfast manner that did his house proud. In the presence of the masters of Astapor, in the old temple at Meereen, on the beach at Dragonstone, at the war council table in Winterfell and in the Red Keep of King’s Landing, as I walked those few, final steps and pressed my pale hand against the cold arm of that ugly iron chair. 

Wherever, whenever. I had only glance to my right side to find him standing close. Always, always within reach.

Why hadn’t I reached out sooner?

_Because you are a fool, Daenerys Stormborn. A fool in love…_

He reached for me now, stroking a lock of hair back behind my ear before rising up to claim my swollen lips again. The stays on my chemise came loose and the ties were undone by a quick tug of Jorah’s fingers. The white lace was soon discarded on the floor of the wine cellar with the rest of it and then it was just his skin against mine, with the heat of Dorne blazing through us both.

He lifted me, my legs curling around his hips as he changed our positions smoothly. And as his body joined with mine, with a breathless, sensual “_Khaleesi_…” escaping his lips, I might have caught fire.

But fire cannot kill a dragon. 

Nor the bear she loves the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnnd fade to black - much to Sanziene’s eternal disappointment, I’m sure. Sorry, darling ;) 
> 
> The Dany’s-fingers-laced-in-Jorah’s-curls action brought to you by the Tumblr lovelies discussion on this _very important_ topic and salzrand’s pretty fanart from last week. I just couldn’t resist <3


	4. An Unexpected Vintage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/k/a Tyrion tries to drink his problems away and discovers a few more instead.

** _Tyrion_ **

I woke with a thirst. This is not an unusual occurrence for me. I’ve been thirsty since the day I was born. When I was a newborn babe, my wet nurse tried to haggle for another copper in her wages, telling my father I had a seemingly insatiable appetite.

_Little did she know._

The bed I slept in was too large. The Prince thought to pamper us with his wealth and opened his best chambers for our use. But I was lost in that bed, smothered by its silks and softness, swallowed up by its massive size, fit for six grown men and women, at least. And it was just me now, as the whore I had shared it with had left hours ago, sliding off the mattress only a few minutes after I paid her.

She had red hair and a long neck. I tried not to read too much into my choice. Ever since that night in the crypts of Winterfell, I’d been thinking on Sansa Stark more than I should. It was becoming something of a habit.

With a half-groan I rolled to the side of the bed, over tangled sheets and the lingering scent of orange blossoms. The girl had worn a few white petals in her hair, braided in with the scarlet strands. 

_Sansa should wear flowers in her hair_, I thought before I could stop myself, still half asleep and under the influence of dreams. I followed it up with another groan and a more familiar, ironically sober thought, one that had waltzed through my head at least twice an hour for the last decade. _I need a drink._

I crawled down from that mattress like a child. There was a footstool around here somewhere but I didn’t bother to look for it. There was no one in the room with me and dignity is a bother when a person is alone. And I was certainly alone.

_All alone._

_Alone, alone, alone…_

_Does Sansa get lonely up there in her frozen North with only her morose brothers for company?_

_Stop it, Tyrion._

I reached for the carafe on the nightstand and found it objectively empty, although I tipped it upside down just to be sure. Damn my lack of foresight.

I shouldn’t have shared my last bottle with the orange blossom girl. Foolish as I am, I thought it might convince her to stay a little longer. But she downed her glass as fast as she snatched the lion-stamped gold from my outstretched hand. 

I tried not to take it personally. Especially since it was to be orange blossom girls or no one for me these days…no matter how strong my recent impulse to travel North and visit my former wife and tell her that she should consider wearing more flowers in her pretty hair. 

It was hopeless.

Even if Sansa returned my affections, which I sincerely doubted, renewing our vows was out of the question. She would _never_ return south, having finally regained the home stolen from her when she was still only a child. I wouldn’t dare to ask her, knowing that corner of her heart well enough. And I could not go north to hide away and lick my wounds, as Jon Snow was allowed. I was Hand of the Queen. Her coronation was upon us and the Seven Kingdoms were only just emerging from years of war, unrest and turmoil.

There was much to be done. Much to rebuild.

And after telling the Queen she must set aside her own inclinations for the duty of the realm, how could I not do the same? 

I felt a scowl claim my lips, as I was still frustrated by the prior evening’s conversation. Daenerys was less than receptive to this marriage pact with the Dornish prince and I was running out of ways to convince her. Margery Tyrell would have seen the wisdom in it, my niece Myrcella was willing to be charmed into it, and even my sister would have accepted the choice—though she would have spit and raged at first, and then thrown her drink in my face.

Still, in the end, Cersei would have done her duty.

But Daenerys—oh, Daenerys was _wild_. Impossible to tame, nearly impossible to advise. I would have an easier time convincing Drogon to marry the Dornish prince. 

_Wait. Maybe that would work…_

Perhaps it was always to be like this. Daenerys didn’t grow up in a castle. She didn’t learn the civilities of court life as a young girl. She grew up in exile, on the run, and spent most of her formative years and young adulthood in the desert with savage horse lords…and Ser Jorah Mormont.

Always Ser Jorah Mormont.

The Queen’s Lord Commander was a problem. He had always been a problem. 

I wasn’t lying that day at Dragonstone, when I handed him the slaver’s coin for luck and bid him farewell with those firm words: _Bring it back. Our Queen needs you._

But that truth was both the solution _and_ the problem, twisted together to the point of snagging when I tried to pull it apart.

Daenerys _needed_ Jorah Mormont. She was better with him. Calmer, less impulsive, patient, more willing to listen to sense. More willing to listen to me, if only because of Mormont’s encouragement.

He had the Queen’s ear. He had her heart too, although I don’t know that she realized it yet. If I was being honest, I hoped she never did.

No good would come from that union. No matter how many times I mulled it over in my head, I couldn’t sell it to myself, much less the common people. Gods, it was poor luck with Jon Snow, for he had been an attractive substitute that might have satisfied her love of brooding, glowering men.

The North adored Jon Snow and he had Stark blood in his veins. All the horror caused by my nephew’s rash decision to cut off Ned Stark’s head all those years ago might have been so easily sewn up, in one stroke, if his son had ended up in the Red Keep.

But Jon was not Ned Stark’s son. He was Rhaegar Targaryen’s.

And raised without that family’s soft spot for lying with their own kin. And so Jon Snow swore his aunt allegiance and returned to the North. Daario Naharis and his cocky smile were far across the sea. Khal Drogo was long dead. And there were no obstacles left—greyscale, old betrayals, imminent war—to keep her mind from wandering to the man who had stood beside her the longest and who, there was no question, would always love her the most.

Oh, but it would be a political disaster. Which is why she needed to marry the Prince of Dorne and quickly, chasing all notion of her Lord Commander from her impetuous head.

_I need a drink_, I thought again. That was the second time in a quarter hour. And it wasn’t yet dawn. I might need to ease off a little. Maybe starting today. 

Or tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow sounded better.

I grabbed my dressing robe from where I’d discarded it at the beginning of the night and pulled it on begrudgingly, not wanting to shock the servants who may be up as I plodded down to the prince’s wine cellar to restock my personal stores.

Sunspear was a lively palace, with its southern residents pouring out wine, mirth and laughter far into the night. But in the early hours of morning, it was as hushed and quiet as Winterfell at midday. I yawned in the corridor and almost found myself apologizing to the walls of the palace, for making any noise at all. 

I passed a servant girl at the entrance to the kitchens. I held the door open for her, as she carried a bundle of soiled linens in her arms, headed for the laundry. She thanked me with a little bob of her head and then asked, “Can I get you anything, my lord?” 

She was classically Dornish, with her long black hair and brown eyes snapping under candlelight. She was beautiful too, as the Dornish prince was particular about the women he employed in the palace. He would likely bring this one to King’s Landing, together with a few others—I wasn’t sure how Daenerys would react to that. Not well, I assumed.

But all I could really think was that she looked nothing like Sansa Stark. This had become the first thought that entered my head whenever I was presented with a woman I had never seen before. 

I had to shake that habit. And soon.

I gave her an appreciative smile but waved her on her way.

“I know where I’m going,” I answered her plainly, but didn’t go into detail. If visiting a wine cellar in the middle of the night because you need a drink doesn’t reek of desperation, I don’t know what does. And servant girl or not, I’d rather keep the depths of my desperation between me and the palace walls.

And I might have. Sunspear’s wine cellar is said to be the finest in the Seven Kingdoms. I assumed it would be a very easy place to forget my woes and the weight of life’s problems. I planned to open a bottle and toast the southern lords for their eternal love of vineyards, hoping for inspiration to strike and give me the words I would need for a second round with the Queen.

Cersei’s feline voice breezed into my head obnoxiously—_Tyrion, you sweet, summer child…_

It wasn’t meant to be.

Someone else was already using the wine cellar. As soon as my foot descended one step down into that cellar, I heard a woman’s voice.

And then a man’s answering her.

I stopped and listened, my mouth going slack. I knew both their voices immediately, for I heard them every single day. Though the words they were exchanging now, down in the wine cellar, were not fit for court. Nor the way my Queen was saying her Lord Commander’s given name and begging him to…

I put my hands over my ears before she finished telling Ser Jorah exactly where she wanted him to…

I don’t know. I didn’t want to know. Not this morning. Not when I hadn’t had a drink in nigh on four hours. I suppressed a long-suffering sigh as the earlier frown on my face returned, only making my dwarf-like visage more hideous, I’m sure. 

I don’t think the gods like me very much. There were many ways to find out the Queen had no interest in taking my advice. This was not my favorite.

_You cannot have him by your side when you take the Seven Kingdoms._

I had been adamant in this, seeing the future as well as a seer, at least where Jorah Mormont and Daenerys Targaryen were concerned. In Meereen, she heeded my advice, though there were tears in her eyes when she sent him away. That was telling. And how many times did she beg him to return after that? Three times? More? I’d lost count. 

There would be no convincing her to take the Prince of Dorne as a husband now. 

I have no doubt that the history books will take great pleasure in reminding all those who come after of my failures. 

_Tyrion Lannister, Hand of a Murdered King and the Dragon Queen, The Unheard, The Unheeded, The Continuously Wine-Soaked… _

Speaking of which—I snuck down a few more steps, cautiously, reaching over the railing until I was able to slip a bottle from the highest shelf of the nearest rack. I slid the bottle from its perch noiselessly, careful not to drop it to the stones below. Red or white, it didn’t matter. But I certainly wasn’t leaving this wine cellar empty-handed. 

I could have confronted them, I suppose, and watched them fumble to pull on their clothes as they broke apart, pretending nothing had happened. But I had a sinking feeling it wouldn’t matter and that they might not even notice I was there at all. As I crept up the stairs with my prize, their quiet voices followed me.

“_Khaleesi_, my love…”

“Jorah, don’t stop…”

She was enjoying herself. That was _such_ wonderful news.

No. I would not stop drinking today, I decided. And likely not tomorrow either. 

And if anyone dared to ask me about the day after that…well, I’d break a wine bottle over their heads and say a hearty “cheers” to the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna call this the end (for now anyway). Thanks, m'dears, for being amazing readers (as always) and also for tricking me into continuing this from that initial one shot. All four chapters sparked writing joy <3


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